


Nescient

by sycamore



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: F/M, Literature, Romance, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2019-11-05 11:50:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17918243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamore/pseuds/sycamore
Summary: Professor Sycamore x ReaderImported from DeviantArt.





	Nescient

**Author's Note:**

> Original story link: https://www.deviantart.com/polydeuce/art/nescient-professor-sycamore-x-reader-540978472

_Nescient | 'nεsιənt |_  
lacking knowledge; ignorant.  
i.e 

He’s nescient to the way you gaze at him in the office. He’s nescient to how you know he likes six sugar cubes in his cup. Nescient to the reason why the coffeemaker isn’t out of grinded coffee after not refilling it for months. Nescient to why his mug is always clean, on his desk.

Nescient to the way that you care about him.

Professor Augustine Sycamore is late today; today, of all days, the day when his old students are scheduled to arrive. You’re leaning on your desk, glow from your computer straining your eyes, but you don’t care. You just need him here, right now. Not only for the job.

His lateness is justified, just by a little bit—he did just arrive the night before from a flight from Hoenn, probably to attend a wedding or something—but this meeting was planned for a month. And you don’t want him to deal with all the repercussions for his actions, mostly the ones from the girl. 

There’s only you here today; it snowed about two foot yesterday, and half of Lumiose would jump at a chance to get some rest in this hard-working, blistering region.

You tap your fingers over and over on the wooden desk, making a rhythm. The digital clock on your computer reads 9:48 AM—he has twelve more minutes.

9:49, 9:50. The only thing that changes in the room is the dust settling.

9:53. You get up, stretch a bit, turn on all the lights in here to brighten the place a bit, and return to your desk.

9:56—the door opens, and you pull your head up in delight. But it’s not him. It’s Serena, here early. She gives you an enthusiastic wave; all you return is a simple flip of hand. 

After looking around the room, the girl approaches you. “Hello, [Name],” she says, a big smile on her face, her voice mellow and softer than usual. “Is Augustine here today?”

You have to forcefully stop yourself from scoffing. She’s around eighteen, and she already gets the first name treatment. There’s also the fact that all she had to do was choose a Pokéball to get to this stage. Oh, it doesn’t matter that you’ve been here for four years, and it doesn’t matter that Professor Sycamore can’t remember your name without help from you.

Pushing the negative thoughts away, you try to keep the disappointment strained out of your voice as you reply. “He’s running late.”

“Oh,” she goes downcast a bit. “Okay, then. I’ll just wait downstairs. Thank you, [Name].”

And then she leaves, and you lean back on your chair, exhausted from that little exchange. You rub your temples. Where in Arceus’s name is he?

Five minutes pass, another five minutes pass. You shut off your computer out of boredom and start pacing around the room. Then you find yourself in his section, half-walled off. 

The Professor was always one for paintings; he brought too many back from Unova that most of his collection still lay around on the floor. You know he still takes care of them, though—the lack of dust is proof alone.

Then there’s his mahogany desk. You never really see him use it, except for a few minutes to research something. He’s a jittery man, always out and about. 

You find yourself rested in his seat next, closing your eyes and breathing in his scent; it always smelled of something lavender, something rosemary, something like _home._ You didn’t think it was possible to be calmed by a person’s smell—until you met him.

It’s so relaxing in his chair that you almost drift off to sleep. Almost.

“[Name]?” You jolt awake. It’s him, looking a bit confused. There’s a rush of affection—could it be, after all these years, he finally remembers who you are? “Calem told me you were up here, alone.”

Oh, yes. The other student, the much more reserved one. Well, at least he remembered for a more than a second, right?

Sycamore inches closer, until he’s sitting on his desk, back towards you. “You didn’t have to come today,” he gives a small, awkward laugh, gazing at his hands. “I was going to text you about it or something, but I don’t have your phone number, mon chéri.”

Ah. You know he feels bad, evident with him calling you his darling; he’d call you mon amie if the circumstances weren’t like this. You brush it off. “Shouldn’t you have it?”

“I should have, but you broke your phone a month ago, right?”

You’re caught off guard then, stunned. It’s true—the screen smashed on the pavement right outside the lab, and you spent an hour sweeping the glass away.

It’s no secret that the professor is forgetful, careless—but remembering a detail like that? Specifically, a detail relating to _you_? You can’t help but smirk in amusement.

He takes notice. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the matter. “Hmm. Should I leave?”

“It would be rude of me to let you walk home in this weather,” he jumps off the desk. “Why not come with me? It’s simply an informal meeting, and it would serve as experience for you to be there.”

You pack your stuff and follow him into the elevator, watching his delicate fingers press the button to the second floor. It’s an odd thing to think, you must admit, but it’s now a habit you can’t break. 

Although this time he notices you watching, and holds your gaze for a moment before smiling one of his trademark innocent smiles. You look away immediately. No way he’ll see how red your face has gotten, no way you’ll ever give him a hint.

After that, the air hangs heavy in the tight space. When the elevator slows to a stop it feels like an eternity has passed but it was only a minute at most.

Sycamore presses the hold button. “After you,” he says, like the gentleman he is. 

You hate how such a tease he is. And you show it when you step out the elevator, holding your fingers in such a way it brushes against his thigh.

His breath catches for a second. When you turn to look at him, he has an unreadable expression on his face.

He opens his mouth, about to say something, but Calem takes the words instead. 

“Professor! And, um, [Name]—”

“Augustine!” Serena yells over him. She rises from her seat at the waiting area, dashing over to the elevator and pulls out the professor from the wrists. “How was it?”

What? What was she talking about? It’s silly how anxious you get about anything, but… they could have sent him up as a joke, maybe just to frustrate you—

“Oh?” Sycamore’s voice breaks through your thoughts. “The wedding? It was grand.”

You give a breath of relief, and then you want to hit yourself. You can’t help being nervous that other people are judging you, since it’s built in your genetics.

Serena pouts. “I can’t believe I couldn’t come because I didn’t have a passport. Did you take pictures? I bet she looked _amazing_ with her dress on, since I chose it myself—”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Sycamore cuts her off, ruffling her hair on top of her head. “I’ll show you later, mon chéri. But for now, there is business to attend to.”

An hour and what seemed to be miles of snow later, you find yourself squished in between a wall and Calem, in Lysandre’s red café. Papers, folders, and tea and half eaten little sponge cakes are scattered on the table, but you don’t pay attention to any of those. Your eyes are subtly looking at the way the professor’s finger is wrapped in his dark hair, at his lips pursed in that cute way, how beautiful he looks deep in thought.

“[Name]?” Serena’s voice is like a pickaxe, trying to split through your perfect fantasy. And she succeeds. 

You jolt your shoulders up in shock, pulling away your gaze suddenly. “W–what?”

To your disdain, she doesn’t say anything more. She raises her eyebrows and smirks, proving your fears. 

Serena leans back, stretching, acting like she didn’t just find a brand new secret to spill. “Okay, I’m out. It’s cold as heck today.” She snatches her Pokédex from under Sycamore’s arm and pushes him out of the way, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll contact you when I reach Snowbelle City tomorrow.” After ruffling through Sycamore’s locks, she bids goodbye and walks out the door.

Sycamore grunts, combing his hair back into place. “I hate it when she does that,” he sighs, sitting down again and shuffling his papers together. “Calem, are you going now too?”

Calem swallows his last gulp of coffee. “Now I am. Thanks for the meal, professor.” He zips up his bag and takes his portion of paperwork into his hands, pushing himself up. “If you need anything, you can just call me.” As the same with Serena, he turns to leave, much more quietly.

After stuffing all his work in his bag (and probably crumpling it too), Sycamore yawns. “What about you, mon amie? I would feel sorry if I let you back to the lab.”

Ah, he’s probably forgotten your name again. It was a nice offer, but you can’t go back home yet. “My ticket for the TMV is for eight.”

He relaxes back into his seat. “I’d offer to buy you an earlier one, but we both know how booked they can get on snow days.”

You nod, not wanting to say more, afraid to bore him. 

Closing his eyes, he sighs. “Stuck with you with the rest of the day, then.”

You feel your face flush with embarrassment. “S—sorry,” you stutter, “I can leave, if you’d like—”

“[Name],” he says, and that cuts you off. So he does remember. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I like your company.”

“Oh,” is all you can say. You are at a lost for words, fumbling at your fingers, trying to get distracted. It works.

And the next thing you know he’s grabbed your hand, pulling you out of the café.  

It’s all so sudden, you feel dizzy. “Hold on!” you yell at him, making him stop. “Where are we going?”

Sycamore lets go, stepping back for a bit more distance. You rub your hand unconsciously. “I was planning on the museum,” he says, a guilty expression on his face. “To make this wait worthwhile.”

He looks like a lost puppy, and you want to take him into your arms and hug him forever, but you look away, acting like you’re annoyed. “At least _tell me_ before you decide to drag me somewhere.” You cross your arms.

He twists at a lock of hair, which you always knew was a nervous habit of his. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear?”

With his eyes twinkling that way, you can’t stay even pretend-mad at him. 

Without thinking it over, you spill whatever was on your mind. “Arceus. If you were anyone else, I think I would stab you.” 

The corners of his lips go downcast, and you feel a bubble of panic rising up. You’ve said the wrong thing, like you happen to always do. There is a reason why there’s no one in Lumiose you could spend the day with.

Uncrossing your arms, you break gaze with him, opting to look at the snow on the ground instead.  “But I wouldn’t,” you say quickly, quietly. “Because you’re you.”

Sycamore pulls your chin up, giving a playful, teasing smile. “Very eloquent, aren’t you?” he chuckles, and this time you can’t help but flush. Squatting his hand away lightly, you think that there is nothing more you want than to slap him right now, except maybe him. Acting like he didn’t see you seethe from embarrassment, he holds out his hand, sweetly this time.

You take it, and Sycamore curls his fingers around your own softly. You squeeze his in return, the warmth very welcome on this freezing day.

It’s so many firsts for you; never had you thought yesterday that you’d be with him outside of work, holding his hand like a couple. You can’t help but stare at him, with his cheeks red from the snow, eyes also on yours. 

He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak right away—he seems stunned. But he gathers himself up and gulps, asking you: “Shall we go now?”

Now it’s your turn to be stunned; you forgot that you actually had a destination in mind. “Oh, okay.”

Sycamore takes great care in the journey now, snow crunching under his shoes as he walks slowly, a firm grip on your hand.

Usually, you’d be unnerved by the fact that to the bystanders that you were a couple, even if it’s Sycamore. But this time, it seems natural that he’s holding onto you, like all the pieces fit into place.

It occupies your mind for the entire route, it seems to go past in just a couple of seconds.

He lets go when you enter the museum, to attend to the cashier, and the coldness stings your hand. You scrape the snow off your soles with the mat. When you look up, he holds out an audio guide.

“Don’t worry about it,” he hands you it, grinning. Like back at the café, he always gifts little luxuries—perhaps it’s in his character, using his own assets. “My treat.”

You look down to the device in your hands, the earphones dangling off to the side. “But what about you?”

“I’ve been here a million times, so I memorised them all. But we can share.”

In contrast to him, you’ve only been here once, and that was a decade ago. You say nothing and take one earphone, placing it in his hand.

He looks confused. “I don’t need to—”

“Let’s listen together,” you speak over him. “It’ll be more special that way, hmm?”

“But—” Sycamore tries to worm his way out of it, but you hold your eyes to his for just a tad bit longer than usual, and he blinks, turning away. “Fine.”

He has to bend a few inches down not to stretch the wire, and you feel the warmth from his face as the radio guide for The Courtyard of the Palace plays. 

“…Sceneries that inspired overseas artists while they were traveling in Kalos.” Sycamore speaks along with the guide in perfect fashion, pauses and hitches in voice mimicked brilliantly. He doesn’t seem necessarily bored, but not interested in art as he usually is.

You’re on the second floor once it gets unbearable, once it feels like he’s judging you. You’re the only one who still is following the audio guide, listening to a short speech about a man and his Wingull in Hoenn.

You run your fingers down the hard metal of the picture frame once it’s back to quietness, lips closed together. The emptiness between you is eerie, so you bring up conversation again: “How was it? The wedding in Hoenn, I mean.”

Sycamore whips his head around, finally paying attention now. “Very, um, grand,” he runs a hand through his hair. “They certainly were ones for the flair.”

You’re not interested at all, but you want his attention. “Who were they?”

“A close friend of mine. She used to work with us, do you remember?” No. You don’t. Probably because you only just moved up to the third floor, and had short hours. Sycamore doesn’t realise you tense up, and continues speaking. “Well, she’s revived a large amount of Trainers in that region, and it’s buzzing as much as it did nine years ago, when that seventeen year old took championship.”

He seems to have forgotten the _other_ half of they. “Sounds like she’s got her life ahead of her,” you say, just wanting to hear his voice again. 

“She does. So many opportunities, sometimes I get jealous.”

You feel a drop of sadness—why would he be jealous of anyone at all? He’s perfect, he’s everything. “But aren’t you the same profession?”

“Yes. But she’s already got a partner to make the journey of life so much funner.” 

…Oh. You turn your head away from him, back to the painting again. This is certainly a new development for you, something you didn’t know about him for once.

“And I forgot to mention,” Sycamore brings it up again, walking to another painting. “She married the former champion of that region. I never really liked him that much.”

“Um,” you say, not really knowing how to respond. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“He moved here for a few months, and every single day he was in the office. And he wouldn’t stop talking about rocks. I do like mega stones and all, but he was a bit too obsessive.”

You look down, not saying anything. He’s back to observing the frames, just doing anything to pass the time.

Sighing, you take off your half of the earphones, clipping them back to the small box. “I’ll just go,” you say, handing it to him. “I think that’s better for both of us.”

You turn away from him while he’s still a bit dazed, both hoping and not hoping that he’ll grab your wrist before you reach the counter. He doesn’t. He doesn’t call for you once you walk down the stairs. 

It’s only a few seconds in real time, but it feels like prolonged for an agonising hour for you, those few steps before the entrance. And then you hear a breath let out and you feel better for a fraction of a second before you hear the voice.

“Miss,” it’s the attendant at the entrance. Disappointment runs through you, but you force yourself to turn. “There is a snowstorm upcoming, and it was advised to not be outside. Are you sure you want to leave?”

Sycamore turns around the granite topped counter, pushing the audio guide back into place on the tiny shelf. So he did follow you. “[Name], I won’t let you leave.”

You let out a sigh. He’s doing this out of pity, you’re guessing, not because he actually wants you there. “Fine,” you say, turning back around. “But let’s start at the third floor this time, okay? So you won’t get bored.”

You’re both on the stairs leading up to the third floor when he decides to speak again. “I wasn’t bored,” Sycamore says from in front of you, his face turned so you couldn’t see his expression, “I was—”

“You were,” you cut him off, pausing your stride. “You were. Usually you work be all over artwork, but you weren’t. I know you too well.”

When he doesn’t respond after more than a few seconds, you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You open your mouth to try to fix it, but it’s his voice who the words instead.

Sycamore speaks with a hard tone, still not wanting to face you. “I know the way you feel about me,” he murmurs, clenching his fists as your heart drops. “Love, right? But it’s not. You depend on me too much.” He turns around, and to your surprise, you’re not the only one with tears in your eyes.

“Professor, I—”

“Let me speak, please,” he lets his hands go soft again, and he reaches up to touch your shoulder. “You look at everything you do and ask yourself if I would approve! That’s why you wanted to leave, right? Because I wasn’t paying attention to you?” he looks up to you in such a sincere way, that even if it feels like hell, you give him a nod.

His voice takes another drop, back to his murmuring. “I don’t want that for you. I don’t want to control you and make you feel like you’re nothing compared to me.” He lets you go and continues his ascent, pulling the end of his lab coat up to dab at his eyes.

When you reach the third floor, he takes a seat at the nearest sofa to the stairs, his elbows at his knees, hands joined together. His eyes are at the floor when you turn around to him, finally noticing he wasn’t following you anymore.

You take a step forward, but his voice makes you pause. “I believe I should give you a proper apology, [Name].”

No. He shouldn’t. “You don’t have to apologise for the truth. I do everything I do in your name,” you slowly sit down next to him, keeping your distance. “But I didn’t know that you were aware.”

“I didn’t, until today. When you were at the office waiting for me, I realised. And then just now I realised _how_ much of an effect I am to you, mon chérie.”

You twist your fingers together, looking for a distraction from your feelings. “I really don’t mind if I live like that forever.”

“[Name],” Sycamore’s voice is back to the soft whisper it was on the stairs. “Can’t you see?” He turns his head to you, and you notice he hasn’t stopped crying. Giving out a small, disheartened laugh, he speaks again. “You’re really nescient.” 

It’s the second time today you’re learning something about him you didn’t know before. “W—what?”

“If you just asked me, I would be yours in a heartbeat,” he admits. “I care about you. I care about you so much, that I don’t want myself to be a negative energy pulling you apart. Don’t mould yourself into what you believe would be the perfect one for me—I already think that you’re perfect.”

It’s too much to take in. You sit there, mouth agape, while he scoots to be closer to you. You, someone who always felt insignificant in this growing city, finally finding a miracle. 

But you can’t just stay shocked forever. “Augustine,” you say, testing out his first name, since you have a feeling that you’ll be using it a lot now. If you had just asked him… You take a gulp, turning to face him. He’s a bit closer than you expected, but you keep yourself calm. “Fine then. I’m asking you now. What do you say?”

The corners of his lips go up. “I would say yes a million times, but we’ll get out of this museum in the middle of summer if I did that.”

That’s his nescience working up again. You reach over for his hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of it. “You’re silly. Of course I would wait for you.” It was a roller-coaster of emotions today, but the resolution feels the best. You close your eyes and lean on his shoulder.

He pulls his arm around you. “I’m glad I’m yours, ma belle femme. I get to see you learn to love yourself up close.”

**Author's Note:**

> a request. for my closest friend, who i'll finally get to see again this week after a year of separation <3
> 
> this is one of nine things i'm planning on posting for the remaining month of june :3
> 
> unlike in teaside, the mc here has a lot more issues. i personally got inspired to finish this after binge watching a show and going overboard figuring out if a character's affection to another was too obsessive, despite thinking it was the right way to love. this is reflected here. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed this as always! i got to stop writing things about the middle of winter when it's summer in the us, aha


End file.
